


Lose the Feeling

by lesshoney



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesshoney/pseuds/lesshoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started as an origin story for James Wesley, and then it turned into a Fiskley origin story, and now, honestly, it's just an excuse for them to have sex on that marble kitchen table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Past

**Author's Note:**

> SO MANY THANKS to [foxynelson](foxynelson.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for holding my hand and beta'ing when all was said and done.
> 
> Short intro, careful of the use of homophobic slurs.

His New York apartment still has a shrink-wrapped feel. Not a speck of dust, not one crumb on the granite counters, not a hair in any of the seven sinks. A devotedly maniacal cleaning lady sees to that. They never cross paths.

He brings men here sometimes, when he needs it - when he’s stressed or when he’s got a burn on. They make a mess, they fall asleep. Wesley always wakes up first. Washes and dresses while they snore. He likes the ones that don’t. He goes to his duties, and when he returns, the mess will be gone, and so will the man. The bed will be made, sheets tucked in severe angles. Any evidence of this private, necessary side gets buffed away like fingerprints on chrome finish. 

He’s as orderly in these affairs as in every quarter of his life. Lubrication, gloves, and condoms arrayed surgically on the bedside table. When he brings a man home, there’s no ambiguity. 

He makes them shower before he’ll deign to be fucked. 

* * * 

A supplier calls him a _fag_ once. Once. In Fisk’s hearing.

Wesley gains a firsthand definition of “dismemberment”, and he isn’t sure if Dusseldorf’s finest ever found all the pieces. They don’t do business with the Germans anymore. 

He was born into the _proximity_ of money, more than money itself. The family home is in the hills outside of Hartford. His father is an ambassador, his mother a minor something-or-other. She keeps to herself, an ocean away. He’s schooled locally, with a cadre of youth from the diplomatic services. They’re awkward roses tended in the same walled garden, and even back then, he had something of the snake about him. He remembers making girls cry.

An American boarding school at twelve, where there are boys, plenty of them, including a few who share his budding predilections. But that comes later, and it’s small comfort. He hates communal living. The stink and noise and closeness keep him angry and on-edge. He plays games to turn the other boys against each other. 

He likes to read. He likes to think. He’s the soulful student the ancients had in mind when they formed their _artes liberales_. He picks up four languages and a poetic bent that never leaves him. 

Over one of their winter holidays, his father notices the way he doesn't look at girls. He gets a slap that leaves his ears ringing.

The LSE at nineteen. He doesn’t join his father for holidays anymore. In pretty quick succession, one boyfriend who teaches him about wine and takes him to the opera, fondest memory a handjob during Siegfried’s funeral march, and one boyfriend who takes him to the family heap in Somerset, where they argue about Ruskin and have bucolic fucks in the boathouse. He wasn’t given this life, but he knows how to barter for it. He's on their dime, because _daddy_ is having money issues because _mummy_ \- well. It doesn't matter. Daddy will sort it out.

That spring, his mother dies. No one bothers to ask him how he feels about this. Not his father, and certainly not his father's newest friend, Leland. The two of them make Wesley feel unwelcome at his own mother’s funeral.

Maybe it’s coincidence, maybe it’s grief, but he goes through a phase: bored of boys he knows, he tries to find something new. He tries to lose the straight-laced priss, he gets his ear pierced. This is pain he likes. He goes back to get a second, and for a nipple, too.

At the end of that summer, he finds the first real beating of his life. He’s in New York City, called there because his father wants to have a Serious Talk. He’s a bright-eyed thing too obviously on the pull. He picks the wrong bar. When he leaves, a couple of the patrons follow him out. 

The next thing he knows, he’s on the grimy pavement in an alley. There’s an overflowing bin leaking something that smells like weeks-dead cat. His wallet is gone, his glasses were whipped off and smashed under a boot. He’s bleeding and in tears by the time he finds the twisted frames. A good Samaritan takes him to the ER.

Thirteen stitches. Slight concussion. One of his bright eyes stays swelled shut for a week.

His father finds out. 

This time, he’s too big to slap. There’s an unholy blow-up in the hotel lobby, and another in the lift, halfway up to his father’s suite. He never goes in; when the elevator opens, his father steps out, but Wesley doesn’t. The doors close and that’s that.

Wesley throws himself into his studies. He starts hating men that are too obvious, or come on too strong. He’s not going to be one of _them_ , those pretty brainless boys thirsty for cock. He stops looking at nobodies. He takes the piercings out. 

He tries a girl. When they’re done, while she’s putting her clothes back on and he’s still naked under the sheets, she rates his performance and tells him what he already knows: “You’re _gay_ , James.”

His mouth curls up at the corners. 

Graduation, with some distinction. There’s a place waiting for him with the Bank of Tokyo. 

He hasn’t spoken to his father in three years.

Asia. Clean, modern, finally taking its eternal quiet power onto the world stage: the Dragon Rising and the Rising Sun. There's an energy that makes life feel light speed. He thrives. He travels. He meets people, all sorts of people. He’s got buckets of charm and he’ll do anything. He has a healthy disdain for the rules, and enough sophistry to talk down any conscience.

His day job is slowly eclipsed by the work after dark. Dinners, events, organizing, assisting, translating, helping new-mint businessmen step into the Beijing nightlife. Escorting. Sometimes more. He’s on another man’s arm when he meets Wilson Fisk.

* * * 

Impulsively, he seats himself next to Fisk for the interminable dinner. He’s struck by the soft-spoken giant. Fisk is dextrous but dainty with the silverware. He appreciates the wine the way an illiterate man appreciates a shelf of beautifully bound books. He seems relaxed in his expensive suit, but there's something shy about him. He's generous and careful with his elbow room.

Wesley recognizes from a mile away that he’s not a natural. Fisk is playing the part a little too perfectly. Obviously new money. Wesley doesn’t hold it against him. He feels, instead, an odd protectiveness, a little rush of affection. Along with it comes a familiar ember. He lingers on one glass of wine to keep a clear head, and lets it burn.

He translates for Fisk, even though Fisk isn't the one who's paid for him tonight.

He hasn't spoken to his father in six years.

* * * 

The end of the evening. Mr. Royse, who got half of Wesley’s attention all night and is already steaming, grabs Wesley’s elbow roughly. 

Then Wilson Fisk is there, just _there_ , looming between them. He gives Mr. Royse a magnificently awkward smile and asks if he might have a-a-a word with his companion. 

Mr. Royse measures up his chances, decides they aren’t good, and gives Wesley a stormy nod. He stalks off toward the bank of lifts. 

Fisk blocks Wesley with his shoulder, putting half his bulk between Wesley and Mr. Royse’s retreating back. 

“What can I do for you?” Wesley asks, looking up at him - not far, they’re almost of a height.

"He doesn't mean well," Fisk rumbles gently. 

Wesley's first reaction is to smile. What can you say to that? _Who does?_ But he looks in Fisk's eyes and sees something genuine. It's so rare, it almost passes him by. He can’t do much but smile again, he’s caught off-guard. 

Mr. Royse glowers at them from over Fisk’s shoulder.

“Do you have a _card_?” Fisk asks, every word extraordinarily distinct.

Wesley takes his leather case out of his dinner jacket, picks one of his cards. He hands it to - a bodyguard, who intervenes for Fisk and plucks it from Wesley’s fingers. Fisk nods curtly, and he and his men leave in a small, quick herd.

Wesley goes upstairs with Royse, but he backs out. It was an understanding, not an agreement. He's not a whore.

* * * 

After he meets Fisk, a lot of things happen very quickly. He gets a call from Fisk not three weeks later. They meet for lunch, just him, Fisk, and six bodyguards. He quits the bank the same day.

He devotes himself full-time to this. To _them_. He represents Confederated Global Investments, vague and powerful enough to mean whatever he needs it to. 

And Wesley becomes the powerhouse, becomes the epicenter. How many deals start to slide, only for Wesley to gently touch the back of Fisk’s hand and say “Let me talk to them.” And that, always, that means victory from the jaws of defeat. Fisk loves him for it.

They broker one deal after another, and suddenly Fisk’s empire is sprouting tentacles that are strangling out the competition, Asia, stateside, on every dank European coast, Union Allied starts building the world in Fisk’s image: big, strong, foreboding. 

The only blot on this otherwise brilliant horizon is Leland Owlsley. Leland, close friend and financier to Wilson Fisk, has also featured in Wesley’s back story. Small fucking world. Wesley is annoyed, _put out_ , but he bears it. For Fisk’s sake. Besides, if the billionaires’ club is exclusive, their underworld is positively incestuous. He’s ignored bigger sins. 

* * *

The call comes during a meeting. Not a high-level thing, just testing the waters, both for a waterfront development deal and China-side distribution. They’re tired of routing product through Cambodia. They’re talking with some Anglophones out of Hong Kong. Wesley isn’t translating, just observing, assisting, making Fisk’s thoughts clear, making his halting words sound like silver bells. They’ve been at the table for three and a half hours and the implacability is wearing thin.

His phone chirps in his pocket. He touches it to silence it. 

A moment later, when it starts buzzing against his ribs again, Wesley slides it out. Leland. He puts it to his ear. “ _Yes_.”

He listens for a moment.

“Say again?” he demands, softly. 

Fisk is looking at him now. So are their contacts. Wesley rises stiffly. “Excuse me.” To Fisk, not the suits and gold watches.

He hasn’t spoken to his father in twelve years, and now his father is dead.


	2. Present

As his assistant, it was only expected for Wesley to travel with Fisk, and stay in the same hotels, and indeed have the suite beside Fisk’s, joined by a connecting door. After all, a phone call could come at any hour of the day, and Fisk might need his translator. No one batted an eye. The rooms were tailor-made for these kind of working relationships.

Fisk, halfway through dressing for the evening’s reception, found himself at odds with his bow tie. He left it draped around his neck and opened the connecting door to summon Wesley. 

Wesley was just on the other side, standing amid the minimalist furniture in the suite’s sitting area. He was a silhouette with his back to Fisk, staring out the high-rise windows that overlooked the busy waters of Kowloon Bay. A fiery sunset was lighting up the mainland’s towers of glittering steel and glass. 

“I need you to get him released.” Wesley was growling into his phone. He hadn’t heard Fisk come in. Still with his back to Fisk, he scanned the tablet in his hand. "Okay, _the body_. I’ll fax the forms. Yes, _fax_. The ME’s office is medieval. No, I don’t know when - make some calls."

Whoever was on the other end, there was no love lost. Fisk paused in the doorway to watch Wesley. 

Wesley’s posture darkened as he listened, his shoulders rose and his stance got tense. “I know we can’t bury him in his goddamn golf slacks. Just - go through his closet. Pick something that won’t look like crap.” Another pause. “I don’t care about the watch. Let him take it with him.” Wesley just about spat the last sentence. “Look, you’re on the ground there, Leland. Not me. I need you to -”

He wrenched around in annoyance, and saw Fisk standing in the door. Into his phone: “I’ll ring you back.”

He hung up. To Fisk, contritely, like a waiter eager to please: “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you call.”

“I didn’t call,” Fisk said. 

Wesley licked his lips, thought about this for a quick moment, and then tucked his phone back into his pocket. He checked his watch. “We’re running late, if we want to make the reception at seven.”

Fisk ignored this, like a fence ignores a passing cloud. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Wesley said, too quickly. He had been on the phone nonstop for four hours, since Fisk cut their meeting short. After Leland’s call, Wesley had taken three minutes to compose himself in the hallway, and come back looking impassive - but it hadn’t fooled Fisk.

“I hope that you’ll let Leland assist with the ... planning,” Fisk said. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

“I don’t want Leland’s help,” Wesley snapped. 

Fisk’s deep brown eyes met his. Wesley saw Fisk’s distress. Fisk hated the tension between Wesley and Leland, it hurt him viscerally, it affronted his sensitivities, his need for tranquility. Fisk, in his blood-splattered innocence, still hoped that someday they would make peace. 

Wesley moved toward Fisk, reassuringly, apologetically. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Let’s think about the reception.” 

Fisk pursed his mouth. “Are the arrangements made?”

“Mr. Halliday is going to be in attendance, and the room is ready. Full photo kit. Good lighting.” Wesley took the hotel room’s keycard from his pocket, showed it to Fisk, and gave him a pleasantly poison smile. “He’ll look fantastic. And very recognisable. He’s not going to have many options, except the ones we offer him.”

Fisk followed the keycard as Wesley put it back into his jacket. “If you would prefer not to do this ... act, tonight, I would understand.” 

Wesley shook his head. “It has to be tonight. He’s only in town a few more days.” 

“You’re right,” Fisk said. 

Fisk was studying him, and Wesley realized that Fisk, for the first time, was _unsure_ of him. The thought knocked the air out of his lungs. “It won’t interfere,” he promised Fisk - more than a promise, a vow. 

Fisk’s brow furrowed infinitesimally, the smallest wrinkle and the most pointed flicker of his eyes as they swept Wesley’s face. Then he touched the two ends of his bow tie, wordlessly, and Wesley stepped forward to do it up for him. 

Fisk tilted his chin up to give Wesley room. Wesley breathed in relief and made quick work of it. His hands were steady. He smoothed the front of Fisk’s jacket, picked a mote of dust from his shoulder, and smiled again. 

“Get dressed,” Fisk said. _I trust you._

“Thank you, sir.”

* * * 

A warm trade wind off the South China Sea brought a salt water breeze and the sweet, citrusy smell of orange trees, mingled with good cigar smoke. A line of jet-black Escalades wound up the wide, curved driveway of the hotel like a precise snake. Thick tires rolled to a stop on the flagstones. Doors opened like so many black flags, expensive soles landed on the pavement. The great and the good climbed the gleaming staircase and joined the crowd in the bright lobby.

In his car, not far from the hotel, Wesley fiddled with his cufflinks and waited his turn. Fisk would arrive first. They had agreed Wesley should be fashionably late. A text pinged onto Wesley’s phone.

“Show time,” Wesley said to Fisk, connected via the in-car link. “Francis is in position, and Mr. Halliday just arrived.” 

There was a pause. 

A long one, so long that Wesley started to worry. “Sir?”

“Proceed,” Fisk finally said. 

They were on. Wesley grinned.

“I'll see you inside." Wesley let the grin fill his voice, to help put his boss at ease.

Fisk grunted. "Don't be careless."

"Understood."

* * * 

"When my father died, I didn't go to a party," Leland said.

"Everyone grieves differently, Leland." Fisk was in the citrusy nighttime air, outside on the dark veranda, with ever-present security standing a discrete but observant distance away. He needed a few moments away from the busy reception getting into full swing inside the hotel. An important phone call was the ideal excuse. They came, periodically, throughout these events.

"If he's grieving at all,” Leland sneered. “Hard to tell with him. I don't know if he _has_ feelings."

Fisk disagreed, and didn't bother with a rejoinder.

Leland, sitting at his desk in a high-rise in New York, got a long earful of radio silence.

“All right, don't sulk,” Leland said with a sigh. “I told him I was sorry. How's it going there?” 

“Fine,” Fisk reported. “It’s an enjoyable evening.” 

“Don’t get too comfy,” Leland said, dripping a little venom. “Shouldn’t take long, if Wesley’s wearing his little black dress.”

From his place on the veranda, Fisk had a good view of the entryway. Wesley had just arrived, looking like seven figures and beaming like sunshine. Black dress pants cut just right, accentuating the flawless lines of his hips, the kind an architect would envy. Silky white shirt, fitted and open to the collarbone and tucked in at his slim waist, wrapped in a black leather belt. French cuffs that didn’t quite hide the thick Cartier watch on his left wrist. Beautiful, but accessible. Money, but easy.

They were the kind of clothes that begged you to take them off.

His eyes did, too.

His whole body. 

Wesley was making eye contact, giving slow, caressing smiles as he came in. Heads turned. Men and women. Fisk grunted again. 

“He’s wearing it, isn’t he,” Leland said.

“I have to get back,” Fisk said. He disconnected without waiting for Leland’s reply. 

* * * 

Watching Wesley work the room was complicated for Wilson Fisk. It felt like an invasion of privacy. Wesley seemed so… sincere. As if this wasn’t for Fisk to see. Fisk knew it was an act, but the discomfort was like a pebble in his shoe. He always wondered if this was Wesley, when he was on his own. 

A hopeful gentleman had latched on to Wesley already, but he was a tail trailing a willful kite - Wesley was doing the steering. He followed Wesley ridiculously, as he made the rounds of the room. 

Wesley eventually drifted to Fisk and offered his hand. 

The man at Wesley’s side grinned at Fisk proudly, as if he had the best toy. 

Fisk inclined his head politely, and took Wesley’s languidly-offered hand. Wesley squeezed it. Some of the goofy shine went out of his eyes. He smiled gently, seriously.

Fisk released his hand and Wesley let himself be drawn away, to be shown off to another acquaintance.

Wesley attached himself to Mr. Halliday soon enough. Edward Halliday III was tall and sandy-haired, with green eyes, uneven complexion, and strong features. He was wearing a tuxedo tonight complete with white cumberbund. His cufflinks were tiny Texas flags, but even without the accoutrements, his voice would have given him away as obnoxiously American: Southern drawl, a real good old boy. He was the first, best, and in fact only son of Edward Halliday Jr, one of those preachers that filled stadiums and the airwaves to stoke the bonfire of self-righteous conservatism, ostensibly in the name of God. Edward Halliday III was working on a Congressional bid, running on a platform of unimpeachable virtue. So far, it was playing well with the people who lobbed stones from their glass houses.

Wouldn't the old man - and the electorate - be disappointed in the coke habit and the penchant for being photographed in flagrante delicto.

Wesley pried himself away from his very disappointed host, and made his approach as Mr. Halliday called for whiskey and soda at the bar. Wesley stood closer than even the crowd made necessary, and asked what Halliday was having - and said he’d have the same, with a brilliant smile. 

Mr. Halliday checked Wesley out of the corner of his eye, and then, deciding it was worth his time, he turned to face him. He ordered a second whiskey and soda for his new friend. 

Fisk camped at his table, doing his duty of drinking a glass of rapidly-warming champagne (bearable), shaking hands (unpleasant), and small talk (excruciating). He kept one eye on Wesley.

Wesley took a seat next to Halliday, and had his drink. Then another. The bartender, with a fold of bills straight from Francis’s hand burning a hole in his pocket, was watering them down to almost nothing. 

Wesley could put on a show. He moved with controlled sloppiness, leaning in conspiratorially, lounging back to show off. All of his touches seemed like accidents, but they were messengers, they sent tiny fluttering loveletters right to your brainstem and made your balls ache. He leaned back, spread on the bar stool, drink languishing in one hand, the one with the watch, so that Halliday got the dazzle of the ice and the platinum. His chin, just the right shape for cupping, not too strong, not too hard, and his big sparkling eyes telegraphing invitations. 

Things were going well. It was clear to Wesley, to Fisk, to the entire room, that Wesley had Halliday hook, line, and sinker.

If Wesley had been at the top of his game, if he had been at peace, instead of reeling a little inside, he might have noticed things were going almost _too_ well. He might have paid more attention to the small intuitions, the little voice that was trying to articulate that something felt _off_. He might have noticed that the drinks were getting stronger.

But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. 

“Finish your drink,” Halliday said, leaning in. “Hey, bartender - another. Make it a double.”

Wesley had to squirm a little. “Not for me,” he said, with a small, innocent laugh.

The efficient bartender had already poured it and set it at Halliday’s elbow. Halliday pushed it toward Wesley. 

“You don’t have to get me drunk to get me upstairs,” Wesley said, with an inviting rise of his eyebrow. He grabbed the glass, but didn’t drink. He traced a finger on the rim. 

“I’m not trying to get you drunk. You just look like you might have something you need to drink about. Rough day?”

Wesley’s smile didn’t flicker, but his heart hardened. It should have made him feel guilty, he supposed, when people showed some kindness. But it always had the opposite effect. He resented them, he resented _anyone_ thinking he needed ... wanted ... he almost sneered.

He pretended, though, to be touched - he let his face soften, he let Halliday see his eyes fall briefly, and then make contact again. Wesley was tired. He was - in his way - unhappy. He wanted to get this over with. He swallowed the drink, just for show, and took Halliday’s hand. “Let’s go.”

Halliday glanced at Wesley’s fingers resting on his. “All right. Let’s go.”

The elevator was waiting for them. 

Wesley hit the button for the thirtieth floor. He saw Halliday in the gilt-mirror panelling, hands stealing toward his waist. He let Halliday grasp him and trace his fingertips along his belt. Like running your hands over the bow before you unwrapped the present. 

"Do you like doing this?" Fisk had once asked him, shy because Wesley was almost undressed. Their mark had been weeping in the next room, Francis standing over him, on guard for sudden moves.

Wesley had shrugged. 

No, he didn’t like doing it. He didn’t like it at all. He hated smiling for them and batting his eyelashes and feeling them get hard, and the way Fisk looked at him afterward, always distant, like Wesley wasn’t quite clean enough for him. Wesley hated that most of all. 

Wesley caught his own eye in the mirror, and realized Halliday was watching him, too. He had to get his head back in the goddamn game. Wesley smiled, ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth.

Halliday smiled back. He reached around Wesley, and jabbed one of the buttons on the panel.

The elevator doors slid open. 

Wesley, cornered against them, just about fell through the doors. He should have eaten more. He was annoyed, he was starting to feel that last drink, and he wanted this over with. Halliday was hanging back, like he might be thinking twice. 

“My room’s ready to go,” Wesley said, leaning in for a whiskey-laced kiss and a breathy laugh. Teasing, with his hand firmly on Halliday’s hip, finger hooked in his belt. “Come on. What’s the matter.”

Mr. Halliday suddenly looked very, very sober. “I think we’ll go to mine instead.” 

Wesley kept smiling. He followed the inner seam of Halliday’s thousand dollar trousers until he felt which way he was dressing, and caressed him. “Mine’s closer,” he said, with an urgent, warm whisper.

And then a hand like a bulldozer’s bucket landed on his shoulder and squeezed tight, so hard that his arm tingled, and yanked him away from Mr. Halliday. Wesley spun around, right into the pistol butt whipping toward his skull. 

* * *

Blackness. And then, slowly, an awareness of pain. Wesley woke up. He raised his chin from his chest and his head rang like a bell. Jesus. He breathed under a sudden wave of nausea. Something warm and thick was seeping down his cheek. 

His brain slowly came out of its fog and started noticing things. Arms wrenched behind his back. Tied. The recycled air conditioning smelled the same. They were still in the hotel. That meant Fisk was nearby. Francis was nearby. Francis would have raised the alarm already, Wesley was sure of it. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He picked his head up again, trying to make out his surroundings. He was zip-tied by the wrists to something, a chair. He couldn’t see anything. He couldn’t fucking _see_ anything - 

Before he could panic, a door opened. The lights flicked on, and Wesley was blinded. It hurt but he forced his eyes open. He needed to know what he was dealing with.

He saw a supernova of white that gradually coalesced into individual tiles between his shoes. The chair he was fixed to was sitting in a shower. There was a drain right between his toes. Wesley looked left and right. One eye was clouded with blood. He blinked to try to clear it. 

“Morning, sunshine.”

* * *

"Does anybody see Halo?" Francis demanded.

“Swept thirty, no sign of him.”

Francis sprinted through a service corridor, dodging staff with loaded laundry carts and cleaning supplies. His earpiece was full of chatter, three dozen of Fisk’s best men, on half as many floors, all caught fucking flat. Wesley and Halliday were ten minutes overdue to the suite and that was, as far as Francis was concerned, about as ambiguous as Pearl Harbor. Wesley was missing. Someone had declared war. 

"They never got off on thirty," Perce was reporting. "Lu and I were on target -"

"I want Searchlight secured," Francis ordered. His channel cut through the rest. He'd have Perce's thumb, later, for apparently standing around with it up his ass while the plan went to hell. "Everybody at ground zero” - the reception - “get on Searchlight now. Everybody else, get me a visual on Halo. Spread out and _find him_."

He rattled off names and floors. Exits, directions. Elevators, choke points. He was fucking good at this. From a handful of walkthroughs, he had a mental map of the hotel, a 3D exploded view that he twisted in his brain as necessary. Corridors, maintenance entrances, a veritable warren of weak points. He needed fifteen more guys to really lock it down. 

They weren't the only ones moving. Half the attendees had their hired muscle, their entourages with pieces under their coats. Francis saw a flurry of whispers into sleeves and fingers touching earpieces. He didn't fucking care.

He made it to the ballroom. He skidded to a stop and swung through the doors with dire nonchalance.

* * *

Wesley looked up blearily. Two goons. Wesley knew the type. One tall and thin, the other a slab of beef on legs, probably made pro in the NFL and got drummed out for steroid abuse. They were both wearing suits off the rack and cotton-polyester blend ties. _Henchmen_ , like out of a comic book.

The taller one spoke with the same dulcet twang as Mr. Halliday. “My boss is real sorry, but somethin’ came up.” 

Wesley had a few choice words, but he held his tongue.

Long Tall Sally pulled a chair from against the wall, situated it in front of Wesley, and sat down. “He left me with a few questions. Would you do me a favor and answer them?”

Wesley smiled. His smile said, _if I don’t?_

“Look, I don’t want to have to leave you in here with Rich.”

The linebacker, who moved with weight like a punching bag, like swinging concrete, grinned at the mention of his name. 

“And I don’t think you’d like it much, either. So let’s talk.”

Wesley knew this script. He’d used it himself often enough. But only when he was sure of his position, sure that he had run his quarry to ground, cut them off and cornered them alone. Maybe they had miscalculated. Maybe they didn’t realize who they were dealing with.

The tall man leaned toward Wesley, elbows on his knees. “What’re you after?” 

Wesley didn’t have to fake the terror on his face, but he gave over to it, gave it free reign. If he acted like a minnow, they might just throw him back. He told himself again, Francis would have raised the alarm. They were looking for him. He just had to play for time: 

Wesley let his pitch spread out. “I wanted a good time. Your boss looked like he’d be willing to pay. It’s what I do.”

“This watch, this from one of your beaus?” Wesley’s interrogator asked. He pulled Wesley’s watch out of his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, admiring it. 

Behind his back, Wesley felt his bare wrist with his fingers. He eyed the watch protectively. “Yeah. I did something special.”

“Christ. What kind of ‘special’ gets you a Cartier?”

“I could show you,” Wesley offered. 

Smokey and the Bandit exchanged looks. 

Wrong move. Wesley reeled back the rentboy bravado, and smiled meekly. 

“Who are you?” 

“Nobody,” Wesley said. 

The door opened. 

“Cut the crap, Wesley.”

Wesley stared. It took a moment - after the whiskey, the blow to the head, and the way his hands were going numb - it took a moment, on top of all that, to dredge up the memory. 

Mr. Royse. Who he’d dropped for Fisk, in a hotel a lot like this one. Royse looked older, wealthier, and a lot more dangerous. (Wesley supposed he did, too.)

Shit. No time to ponder what Royse was doing here, he _was_ here, and that was enough to keep Wesley occupied. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

His jaw cracked on its hinges as Royse’s knuckles smashed across his face. Blood flooded his mouth and he coughed, spat it down the front of his white shirt. 

Wesley didn’t recover very quickly; his head was already spinning, now he felt like the room was, too, just in the opposite direction. He squeezed his eyes shut. 

Mr. Royse filled a glass of water in the sink, and threw it in Wesley’s face. “Stay with us.”

“What do you want?” Wesley growled. 

“I want to know what you’re after.”

“Like I told your friends - easy money. Buck and a fuck, like always. You remember.”

Royse didn’t rise to the bait. “With Wilson Fisk sitting there like the ghost at the feast? Bullshit.” Royse waved the hired help away. He was taking over. He smiled ice at Wesley. “Anyway. You’re too old for this loverboy crap. Works at twenty, darling, but not at thirty. You’re way past your best-by date.”

Wesley showed his teeth. 

* * *

Francis and the bodyguards were trying to channel Fisk to the cars, like wolves channel a moose, something dangerous. Fisk was roaring orders, he was the boss. No one was leaving until Wesley was accounted for. No one.

Francis had men in the security room. Footage was scrolling back at quadruple speed, rewinding the last fifteen minutes of the evening in a crazy montage of pictures-within-pictures.

“Sighted him, boss,” Dami said, standing over a workstation, with his hand on a security guard’s very tense shoulder. 

Fisk had a clean earpiece held to his ear. He wouldn’t put it in. 

“They’re on seventeen,” Dami reported. “Got off the lift thirteen minutes ago.” 

Fisk closed his eyes, it might have been meditation, it might have been relief. “Kick down every door. We can make our apologies later.”

“I know a quicker way,” Francis said. 

* * *

“It’s no surprise,” Royse was musing, still having his moment, “That Ed decides to run for office, and assholes like you crawl out of the woodwork.”

Wesley couldn’t believe Royse was carrying all this rancor over a couple of nights out, six years ago - not really. Fucking drama queen. 

“And we know you’ve got Cherryh’s whole caucus by the balls. You’re not going to play Ed the same way. He’s hired me to see to that.”

“So you’re sort of a… jockstrap?” Wesley asked snidely.

Royse chuckled. He rose from his chair. He put his hand on Wesley’s throat, felt his hammering pulse, and then dragged his hand down Wesley’s chest. “You still wear that piece?”

Wesley glared as Royse’s fingers drifted to his left nipple. Royse found the small, hard shape of the barbell under Wesley’s silk shirt. He toyed with it, rolled his thumb over it. Wesley gritted his teeth as his nipples - despite everything - stiffened from the attention. Royse smiled, gave it another tweak - and then twisted savagely. Wesley bit his lip to stop his shriek -

The fire klaxons went off, startling Royse enough to pull his hand away. Wesley couldn’t tell the difference between the splitting pain in his ears and the hot agony tearing through his chest.

Before Royse and the two stooges could confer, the lights went down. 

All of them. The bathroom plunged back into darkness. Wesley managed a bloody grin around the sharp, jangling pain. Fisk.

The door exploded off its hinges. Wesley heard shots fired, lighting up the black suite with muzzle flashes like lightning. Wesley saw shadows flow past the bathroom door, and then halogen beams were in their faces. Wesley was blinded again, screwing his eyes shut against the spotlights.

Then Francis was at his side, penlight in hand, talking to Wesley calmly, cutting the tie on his wrists with a switchblade. Wesley pulled his arms forward and hissed, shook his hands out as the blood rushed back to them. 

Fisk was in the suite, the outer room. Royse and the goons must be out there too. Wesley heard them yelling. Wesley recognized Fisk’s silence, like a physical presence: the void at the center of all that crimson violence. He heard fists striking bodies. Ribs, spines, skulls.

The lights came back up. Wesley pulled himself to his feet and grabbed for the counter, the faucet. He hunched over and vomited into the sink. 

He twisted the faucet to turn on the water and caught his breath. He rinsed his mouth. He looked at himself in the mirror. Francis was helicoptering, servile and concerned, at his elbow. 

Without a word, Francis offered him a towel. 

Wesley took it. “Thank you, Francis.” He wiped his face.

Francis looked at Wesley, nodded, and then very carefully looked through him. The consummate professional. Just part of the wallpaper. “Boss wants you in the car, sir.”

Someone in the other room was moaning in pain. Fisk had some business to finish up here. Wesley was happy to leave him to it. 

* * *

Wesley waited for a quarter of an hour, folded up on the back seat and shaking like he was coming off something. Police and fire had arrived en masse. Fisk passed through the cordon without challenge, as if some protective hand parted the way. It probably had Madame Gao’s manicure.

Wesley shrank back when the car door opened, letting in the noise and flashing lights. Fisk got in beside him and the heavy door closed them in. 

Wesley turned to him wordlessly. He almost expected Fisk to put his hands around his throat and squeeze.

Fisk put his hand on Wesley’s knee, and knocked on the partition. The cars pulled seamlessly into Hong Kong traffic. 

* * * 

They retired to their rooms to clean up. Fisk took off his tuxedo jacket and draped it like a tent over one of the dining room chairs, then undid his bowtie and cuffs. He carefully stowed his cufflinks in their lacquered box and untied his shoes. He squared them in the closet. 

His phone beeped. Madame Gao, chiding him for tonight’s indiscretion. Wesley might have received the same. The thought made Fisk uneasy, for some reason. He decided to go and see.

“Wesley,” Fisk said, a short summons. 

Wesley usually appeared like a conjuring trick when it was a good day; when it wasn’t, he should at least hear Wesley making himself decent and scuffing one shoe across the carpet as he jammed his foot back into it. 

Neither. Dead silence. Fisk scanned the room. The bar was hanging open and a bottle of something was missing off the top shelf. 

The bedroom door was open. Fisk glanced in, quickly, uncomfortable with the intrusion, and uncomfortable with the silence.

Wesley’s glasses were on the bed. No belt, shoes, socks, clothes. Normally, Fisk would not trespass, but the glasses by themselves seemed ominous. Fisk padded across the thick carpet to the bathroom door and knocked. The door swung open on well-oiled, almost antigravity-smooth hinges.

Wesley was seated on the edge of the bathtub, beside the sink. The sink was running. The bottle of something was scotch, uncapped, balanced beside him. He was still fully dressed, but his bloodied shirt was open almost to his waist. He looked paralyzed, blank. When Fisk entered, he hurriedly shook himself back into motion and grabbed for the wash cloth.

He knocked the bottle of unpronounceable scotch off the edge of the tub and it shattered on the tiles. 

“Shit,” Wesley gasped; Fisk flinched. “I’m sorry.” Fisk didn’t care for swearing.

Fisk kicked the biggest shards aside with his dress shoe. He took the handkerchief from Wesley’s hand, re-folded it, and dipped it under the tap. He slowly brought it to Wesley’s split lip.

Wesley winced as Fisk cleaned the blood off his chin. Fisk took his time. He was thorough, and gentle. Wesley, not sure where to put his eyes, stared past his broad shoulder and tried to breathe. 

Finally, Fisk dropped the handkerchief in the bath and put his hands over Wesley’s, where they were clasped to his knees. 

“Do you need a doctor?”

“No.”

Fisk raised his slender fingers and touched the corner of Wesley’s mouth, where he wasn’t split and hurting. Then he put his fingertips on Wesley’s brow, careful of the knot above his hairline and the blood making it spikey. He stroked the hair back from Wesley’s forehead. 

“Look at you,” Fisk said, as if he were the one in pain. His eyes were unmistakably shimmering. 

Wesley stared at him in awe: or something like awe. Fisk was ignoring the scotch seeping into the knee of his trousers and the glass that was still all over the floor, kneeling in front of him. Wesley smiled to hide the tremble of his chin. 

“I’ve had worse,” Wesley said.

“When?” Fisk asked. 

“A long time ago. It doesn't matter.”

Fisk moved to get up. 

Wesley put his hand on Fisk’s broad shoulder. Fisk froze where he was, and his eyes travelled the length of Wesley’s arm, up to his face. Wesley’s eyes peered into his, nervously, hopefully. Please. 

Fisk put his hands on Wesley’s thighs. He let their warmth and weight soak into Wesley for a moment, then traced down Wesley’s legs. He took off Wesley’s shoes as if Wesley were a child, and slid open the buckle of his belt.

“Clean up,” Fisk said. "I'll wait."

* * *

Wesley got out of the shower and slipped a robe on. It was navy blue, thin, and cool against his flushed skin. He made a perfunctory tie in the belt. 

Fisk was waiting for him. The bed was turned down. Wesley’s glasses were on the nightstand, and his phone was charging. Fisk had put out a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of water, frosted up except for Fisk’s fingerprints. The hundred small ways Wesley looked out for Fisk, Fisk was returning the favor. 

Fisk had also set _their_ things out, the little square packet and pump of lube, and thrown the blanket on the bed. Fisk himself sat on the edge of the mattress. He had rolled his sleeves up his thick forearms to his elbows and undone his top button, more like a surgeon than a lover.

Wesley reached out to him and Fisk took his hand. Fisk kissed the back of his knuckles as Wesley stood in front of him. 

Fisk looked up. “How did your father die?” he asked, blunt as a stone. 

Wesley turned Fisk’s fingers in his, watching their hands fan and twine together, avoiding Fisk’s eyes. “Heart attack on a golf course.” After what the world had just seen, it sounded so mundane, so… _stupid_. Wesley’s face twitched. 

Wordlessly, Fisk pulled Wesley to him. The robe came undone as Wesley embraced him, sunk onto his lap and tucked himself close. He had scrubbed so hard he was pink and raw, and he shuddered as his bare skin pressed against Fisk’s clothes, the hard ridge of buttons down Fisk’s front and the prickle of his silk and wool trousers on the back of Wesley’s thighs. Fisk mistook his shiver for emotion, murmured something soothing. 

Wesley shook his head, and kissed him. 

Fisk held his ground, but Wesley sensed the resistance, the tension as Fisk kept himself still. Wesley broke away, bowed his head apologetically. One of the rules - no, more like one of the stage directions, something they had negotiated without words - Fisk did the kissing, when he wanted it. He couldn’t always handle it. Comfort was complicated and brittle for Fisk.

Wesley rubbed Fisk’s shoulder awkwardly, pulled a handful of Fisk’s shirt into a fist, and smoothed it out again. “Will you…?”

“Lie down.”

He moved, somewhat gracefully, onto the bed. Fisk perched by his side. He reached over to turn the lamp off, but Fisk put a hand on his arm. He sank back, and let the robe fall open. 

Fisk took him in, the pale skin framed by the blue robe, the dark hair under his arms and between his legs, the lines of bruise already starting on his wrists. Wesley’s stomach was never as flat as he liked, and his chin never quite as sharp as he liked. He made sure his collars were crisp and the lines of his suits were severe, to make up for it. 

Fisk’s eyes were going black, drinking him in. “You’re very beautiful, Wesley.”

Wesley blushed lightly; his cheekbones pinked. Fisk understood that he was one of the finer things in life; it had taken time, but Wesley had finally convinced Fisk that he was one of the things Fisk _deserved_. And the whole time, he thought he knew where they were going - where they would end up. Wesley had made himself available to a lot of powerful men, and they had enjoyed him like anything else they were entitled to. Treated him like the wine cellar, or the tasting menu. But Wilson Fisk was different. Fisk had surprised him, again: met him halfway. Learned about him. Listened to him. _Cared_ for him. And - most importantly - needed him.

Fisk was frowning, staring at the bandage on Wesley’s chest. 

“It’ll heal,” Wesley said. 

“He’s dead,” Fisk said, as if that would help.

It did, a little. “Thank you.”

Fisk nodded. He tore the wrapper open and slipped the black latex over the first two fingers of his right hand. His preference, Wesley’s comfort - it worked for them. He pumped lube on his fingers, and Wesley hiked up his hips. 

Wesley closed his eyes. Fisk’s first touch was with his free hand, his palm and fingers splayed over Wesley’s stomach. He brushed his hand down to Wesley’s erection and curled it around to weigh Wesley’s balls. Fisk rolled them, applied some pressure with his thumb to make Wesley release the breath he was holding.

Wesley relaxed behind his eyelids, let his head tip back, and concentrated on his nakedness, his vulnerability. He wished his hands were tied - up against the headboard - but the headboard was one flat panel of solid oak. He could imagine. He liked a particular headspace, he could think himself into it without needing the concrete, physical stuff. He put his arms above his head, imagining Fisk’s hands around his wrists, Fisk cuffing him, staking him out. He ground his wrists together as if they were bound. 

Fisk trailed his fingers up the underside of his shaft, leaving a cold streak of lube that made him shiver. He made a noise in his throat, somewhere between a purr and a growl. 

Fisk pulled Wesley through his hand once or twice. He dipped his hand between Wesley’s legs, spread some of the slippery gel up his thigh, and drew his fingertips across the delicate skin under Wesley’s sack. He went back for more lube and gave another teasing glide of his fingers on Wesley’s dick. Wesley hated to be too dry.

Fisk nudged his fingers against Wesley, and waited for him to relax. Wesley didn’t like it too gentle: he liked pressure until he made himself surrender. Fisk got his fingers in to the first knuckle and stopped at the resistance. Wesley dug the handkerchief out from under his pillow and rubbed himself the way he liked it. The muscles in his legs tensed, relaxed, and as the wave of relaxation went through his body, Fisk pushed and got his fingers hilted. Wesley moaned; Fisk’s own hard-on twitched. 

Long, slow. Fisk kept his fingers in slow motion, twisting and stretching a little, pressing back at Wesley’s excited, fluttering constriction. He ran his other hand over Wesley’s chest, set it on Wesley’s diaphragm, exerted a little bit of pressure as Wesley inhaled. Fisk liked feeling Wesley breathe. He liked feeling that life force under his hand, his rough palm in the vulnerable cradle of Wesley’s ribs. It wasn’t about power or control. Here, like this, Fisk was protective.

Fisk raked his buffed fingernails along the cord in Wesley’s neck and the curve of his jaw, watching his face. Wesley kept his eyes shut, but it wasn’t to block Fisk out. Wesley couldn’t forget he was there. Wesley didn’t talk much, but sometimes Fisk gave him an encouraging sound, when he saw the tell-tale bunch of Wesley’s stomach or a loud huff of breath. Wesley reached out for Fisk to steady himself, give himself some leverage to grind against Fisk’s fingers. 

Wesley worked his hips against Fisk’s hand. Fisk kept his fingers tucked right up against his prostate, twisted them so the hard bulbs of his knuckles rubbed over that knot of nerve. Wesley whined. 

Fisk put a hand to his own crotch, the erection straining at his fly. He was damp with pre-cum, spotted along the seam of his zip. He adjusted himself in his trousers. He preferred to keep his attention on Wesley, on making Wesley feel good. It got him hard too, and most of the time he even came - but it was all about Wesley, grabbing at the sheets and gasping with his head thrown back, making beautiful sounds through those perfect lips. 

Wesley’s legs shook, a sure sign he was about to come, and Fisk felt Wesley clench around him. He liked Fisk to stay still for this part, just be inside of him and be with him. It was a private thing, oddly solitary. He had an iron grip with one hand on Fisk’s leg, bunching in Fisk’s clothes. He pulled his own cock until he came, squirming and gasping and squeezing around Fisk's fingers.

Wesley got the shakes with his orgasms, literal aftershocks that made his limbs tremble and his toes curl. Fisk sometimes wondered if it hurt - something that intense, something that inhibited and held so close. It took Wesley a little while to come back. Fisk waited for him, stroking his hair.

“Thank you,” Wesley said. It was always ‘thank you’.

Fisk slid his fingers out. He wiped them on a towel methodically, like someone might clean their glasses on their tie, then peeled off the condom and threw it into the bin under the nightstand. He did the same with the handkerchief, taken out of Wesley’s unresisting hand. Pure silk, twelve hundred yuan, completely disposable.

“You can stay,” Wesley said. 

Fisk leaned over him, one arm braced across Wesley’s body. 

Fisk met Wesley’s eyes uncertainly. All Wesley wanted to do was pull Fisk down, hold him, be held. He parted his lips, a silent invitation, he picked his hand up off the mattress and reached toward Fisk - he might as well have been reaching for the moon. There was an immense gulf of space between them, cool and empty as a vacuum. 

Fisk, distant as the stars, ducked and kissed Wesley’s forehead. “Sleep.”

He wouldn’t stay. Wesley nodded stiffly. He turned over before Fisk could see his face crumple. Fisk pulled the sheet up over his bare shoulder and turned out the lamp.


End file.
